


nothing i can do

by goukyorin (sashimisusie)



Category: BioShock Infinite
Genre: Bioshock Infinite: Burial at Sea, Giveaway fic, M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-09
Updated: 2014-08-09
Packaged: 2018-02-12 10:26:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2106222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sashimisusie/pseuds/goukyorin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Did one <em>ever</em> get used to all of the killing? And just when, Robert wondered,  had he gone from impartial observer to something more than that?</p>
            </blockquote>





	nothing i can do

**Author's Note:**

> A long-overdue giveaway fic for my Robert Lutece, [robertenraptured](http://robertenraptured.tumblr.com). Now with 100% more Booker/Robert having sex and Robert being confused.
> 
> Originally posted at my Booker DeWitt rp tumblr [here](http://columbiacalling.tumblr.com/post/93482938532/nothing-i-can-do-booker-robert-nsfw).

Did one  _ever_  get used to all of the killing?

He’d listened, seemingly an eternity ago, when a girl on the precipice of womanhood asked Booker that. Curious how the very same question now weighed heavily on Robert Lutece’s mind. For behind hundreds of thousands of doors lay a Comstock. And for hundreds of thousands of Comstocks, there were debts to be paid and wrongs to be righted.

Debts that he no longer wished to be paid, and wrongs that he thought had long since been righted. It was true that the whole thought experiment, as Rosalind called it, had been his idea. It was his burden to bear for having played his part in the play. For it had been his promises of sins washed away, and brighter futures for those who deserved it that finally—regrettably—convinced Booker to give up Anna.

The man whose hands drove him to distraction from his grim task was not that Booker.  _His_ Booker—as if Robert could lay claim to an iteration of a man that existed in infinitely-many realities—had been the one to break the cycle of blood. The man whose fingertips ran calloused, gentle up the skin on his knuckles and over the bones of his wrist, was a Comstock.

 

> But this one  _was_  different.

There was no denying that he lied, the man’s very existence a falsehood. He’d murdered. Still did, when he couldn’t get his way. But this Comstock had tried to change. He’d shown kindness when none was necessary. A fathom under the water, he was both Booker DeWitt and Zachary Comstock. And miles away from sunlit skies foreign and familiar, he was neither.

The man who’d gone and compromised Robert was simply, on a good day like today, the reason for his racing pulse. The warm solidity at his back, fingertips tracing down the planes of his chest. DeWitt knew what he was doing, and when he put his mind to it, did it well. His touch, sure in its purpose, was warm through the fabric of his shirtsleeves. The physicist’s breath caught in his throat at the nip of teeth at the sliver of exposed neck, rolling his shoulders back at the downward shift of DeWitt’s attention.

Here, in the privacy of the shuttered office, they were free to demonstrate the depths of their affection. Within reason. After all, the walls were thin, and the suites packed closely together. But with sufficient lubrication at hand—bottom left drawer, tucked at the back—even an office desk was a suitable place to be bent over.

The glasses on the table had long been forgotten, traded instead for drinks straight from the bottle. DeWitt tasted of bourbon and tobacco, the detective’s vices obvious even to those not panting into his mouth. It was maddening, how the man could take Robert apart bit by fragile bit with clever fingers and warm tongue. Maddening, and as cloth slipped down over hips to puddle on the floor, exhilarating.

What would his  _beloved sister_  say, to see him laid out on a desk with the back of his hand against his mouth to muffle the groans of pleasure? Perhaps there was a part of her that already knew, turning a blind eye to his increasingly frequent disappearances. The roll of DeWitt’s hips, the sound of skin slapping against warm skin pushed any further thoughts of Rosalind from Robert’s mind.

The desk rocked against the floor, a steady accompaniment to the panting and moaning. He pushed back against DeWitt, inviting the man to deepen his thrusts. The heat grew, pooling low in his spine, and he groaned wordlessly as the other quickened his rhythm. The scrape of wood, and the breathless exhalations grew erratic as pleasure threatened to overwhelm his—and if the tightening of fingers in Robert’s hair was any indication, DeWitt’s—senses.

"Booker," Robert moaned loudly, unable to help himself, and with that, the other shuddered into release. A few steady strokes later, and he spilled messily over himself. With DeWitt’s arms gentle around his shoulders, the seed cooling on his skin, and the beat of their hearts descending in unison, he realized that he’d found the answer he’d been looking for.

Robert Lutece was tired of the killing, but there was nothing in all of his power that he could do to stop it.


End file.
